Monday, May 31, 2010

It Was Cone-Shaped With The Hair Of A Hobbit But It Was Dangerous And Don't Think Otherwise

The hurricane was nothing. Though it issued
flawless consonants like adult diaper farts
it still was nothing, nothing to be concerned
or vexed over for in it swirled eighties music
and those ‘other’ sounds you heard, those
were the leafs of a pulp science-fiction novel turned
by the hurricane’s bored libido. Could this thing be
any more of a loser? We saw it settle at the
Formica table of a fast-food joint, on the
squeaky plastic-upholstered bench
and it complained about the helicopters flying around it
trying to take its pulse and inject it
with tranquilizers. It reared up momentarily – frightening
us – and called itself a magician. Then realized how
dumb that sounded. It was clearly ashamed of
spraying feces all over the helicopters until they – propellers
irrevocably jammed – went away, admitting that magicians
probably never did that. There had been much
fear in its suspicion that they wanted to rip
its heart out and there was wimpy capitulation
in its retreat to the edge of the lake, after the shit-throwing
fiasco, to engage in a private, tranquil rock-flipping
marathon. All by itself. Using raisins. Us. Which was how
we all looked to it from its head-height –
and need I remind you that this pathetic,
cone-headed soul made of dust and the hormones
of prison escapes sitting on that plastic
bench before that sad, sad junk meal
considered sitting and staring about the room
like a swirly-haired hobbit a joyride? If hereabouts you
let your guard down, consider how to it we
still looked like raisins. Fucking raisins, man.
Think about it.

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